Wardrobe Wars
by Inks Inc
Summary: Peter and Neal have wildly different approaches to all things dress. When both men have to stake out a high profile gallery, one dress code must win out over the other. (Completed (silly/fluffy) one-shot)


Peter looked down in confusion as Neal's critical and downright appalled stare drenched him. Seeing nothing to warrant the look, he threw his hands up defensively. "What? What's wrong with me now?" There was a sigh that shook El's beloved curtains as Neal shook his head sadly. Walking slowly towards the elder of the two, his displeasure grew with every step. His crisp white shirt ruffled as he came to a halt and threw his eyes to the ceiling in despair.

"I will not leave this house with you looking like a ragamuffin from a low budget production of Les Mis. I just won't. This is a top end, high profile gallery. We want to blend in, not look like we've turned up to redecorate the bathroom at the wrong time." He threw a hand to the staircase. "Go and put on that blue shirt El got you last Christmas, with the off navy tie and the cufflinks I got you for your birthday. And fix your hair while you're up there, there is no excuse for hair like that. You look like an exhibit in a negligence lawsuit."

Peter stared with a wounded expression.

His jeans and sweater were fine. It was late, he was irritable and tired. This stakeout was bound to be tedious, and he didn't need the added irritation of feeling like a trussed up penguin. He opened his mouth to relay just that to the very and irritatingly dapper looking Neal. But he was cut off. Holding up a silencing hand, the younger man shook his head. "This isn't negotiable Peter. You're liable to have me blacklisted from every exhibit in the state, turning up like that. You know you're aging reasonably well, right? There's no need to turn into a denim donut just yet."

Peter remembered how to glare. And felt good about it.

"Do I need to remind you who the boss is around here? You can't just-"

Neal pointed to the staircase in interruption.

"Upstairs and change, or I call El back here and tell her that you want to disgrace both her and myself by leaving the house like that."

Peter stopped glaring. He looked so wounded that a shelter puppy would have missed out on adoption if placed next to him.

"How could you even think about stabbing me in the back like that?"

The younger man raised a brow.

"Two reasons make it easy for me. One, it's for your own good. There is nothing that can't be made just a little better by a good sense of dress. Two, you had _no_ problem stabbing me in the back with Hughes today because I was like ten seconds late. You realise how long that man can lecture for? Do you?"

Peter rolled his eyes in sheer and utter exasperation.

"As for point one, you put way too much emphasis on dress code. Really, you do. That annoying set of perfect teeth of yours and your equally annoying pretty face ensures you don't need your fancy suits. As for point two, I did _not_ stab you in the back with Hughes. You were half an hour late, and ran into him, physically, spilling his coffee. You spill that man's coffee, and you're on your own. It's a well known fact."

He paused for a moment.

"But thanks for reminding me that you and I still need to have a little chat about your punctuality."

Neal cursed internally.

"Yes yes, we'll get right on that…later," he muttered hastily, "As for now, _we_ are late. And you still have to change. You've got about five minutes, or there'll be no point in going at all." He pointed to the staircase again, and to Peter's ire had the audacity to nudge him painfully into action. "Make haste, make haste," the kid grumbled, "I promised June I'd take the dog for his midnight stroll, and she'll have my head if I'm late."

Peter planted his feet in the ground and placed his hands on his hips.

"So it's ok to be late on my time, but not on June's? Is that what you're saying?"

Nodding without hesitation, Neal resumed his nudging.

"Yes," he mumbled, "June is infinitely more terrifying than you. Now please, for the love of all that is holy, will you _get changed?"_

Peter dug his heels in once more.

"No, I don't think I will. You're being ridiculous; I'm perfectly fine as I am."

Silence brewed between the two as Neal shook his head slowly. Sighing loudly, he reached into the inner pocket of his expensive suit jacket. Pulling out his cell, he made a great show of flicking through his contacts list. "It pains me to do this Peter, really it does." Scrolling leisurely, he halted his thumb over Elizabeth's number, hovering it menacingly. "It's a good thing El isn't long gone, she'll be back in no time."

Peter blanched.

"After everything I've done for you?"

Neal nodded morosely.

"Even after everything you've done for me."

The polished nail seemed outrageously dangerous in the dim light of the hallway as Peter huffed dramatically. Knowing when he was defeated, he raised a brow in the kid's direction. "One way or another, I will get you back for this," he promised lightly. "The next time you make big weekend plans; don't be surprised if I suddenly have a mountain of urgent paperwork for you."

Neal grinned devishly, knowing the battle had been well and truly won.

"Now that I mention El, did she actually ever find about the time you went undercover as a male escort? I think your profile picture is still in the office somewhere. I must root it out tomorrow, I'm sure she'd love to see it. Then again, when I'm _happy_ I'm so forgetful. Must be the serotonin or something. Whatever it is, I guess its best just to make me happy, right?"

Peter gaped wordlessly for a moment, before letting out something that sounded like a mixture between a snarl and a whimper. Turning on his heel, he stormed up the stairs, doing his best to ignore the pealing laughter he could hear below. Throwing himself into his _appointed_ attire, he groaned as he tried to negotiate the damned cufflinks. He knew there was a reason he never wore that shirt. It felt so…odd. Giving it up as a bad job, and failing to fix his tie, he landed back downstairs in time to hear Neal telling Satchmo what a silly boy his father was.

Grinding his teeth together, he held out his wrist.

"I can't do these damned things up. A little help?"

Bidding farewell to Satchmo in the kitchen, Neal strolled back out into the hall. Taking in Peter's attire, he felt the weariness of a centurion engulf him. "Peter," he half gasped, half groaned, "I told you to wear the good blue shirt and the off navy tie! Are you trying to irritate me? What the hell is this?"

Peter gaped and looked down at himself once more in incredulity.

"It's the damned _nice_ blue shirt and the freaking off navy tie, whatever off navy is!"

Neal tugged at his hair in utter frustration. This was too much, this was really too much. All in all, prison was better than this. Prison, was at the very least, _easier_ than this.

"That," he snapped in exasperation, "Is _El's_ nice blue _blouse."_

…

A/N: Silliness that popped into my head.

…


End file.
